He used to live in a normal house, one with bricks and flowers. Now he is going to live in one with white, depressing walls plastered with fake pictures of people smiling, pictures that try to make you feel happy but don’t. He is moving. Not to a normal house, but a hospital disguised as one. A rare disease eats away at his muscles. He is in an electric wheelchair and has been for as long as I can remember.

He used to go sailing and run and jump and scream. But now, he can barely lift a cigarette to his mouth. His left hand just hangs down by his legs, turning purple from staying in the same position. His fingernails are yellowing and his hand is purpling and his brain is melting.

He used to be tan and have color in his hair. Now all I see is pale, dry skin. It looks like a lizard in some places. The wrinkles on his face show how old he really is. All the color from his hair is gone; all that is left is gray like the exhaust from the cars outside his room.

He used to sleep in a normal bed. His new one beeps and moves. It’s like a monster just waiting for its prey to settle in. His new bed has an emergency tube too. He can blow through it if something happens to him at night. That tube sends the nurses running. It’s kind of like being in the army. He is the Sergeant and the nurses are the soldiers. That’s how much power a person in a wheelchair has.

He used to have the will to live. Now? Not so much. There really is no need for that shiny plastic emergency tube hanging over his bed now. They might as well take it off. He has already given away dressers, tables, and old pocket watches, which just reminds me how close the end really is and how far he has come.